


bitter herbs

by orphan_account



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Blood Kink, a lot of messed up shit, death kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-07
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-31 18:57:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6483199
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>you see clove and know she is a monster. you see clove and know you love her.</p>
            </blockquote>





	bitter herbs

She reminds you of a black mamba--small and quick and unbearably deadly. You curse Twelve for playing star crossed lovers before it occurred to you that love was something you could be in. Clove is compact and fearsome and you have never, ever seen her miss a shot. 

Marvel thinks nothing of her. You bring her up to him in passing--the way she holds herself, the sharpness of her eyes, the swiftness of her hands--and he shrugs and snorts and says she’s small. The weakest of the four of them, surely. They won’t have to worry about her at all. 

You let it go. Being underestimated is the best weapon she could have. Consider it a gift. 

The games start and you’re friends. Sort of. “Friend” is not a concept you’re familiar with, but you’re forced to wander together and live together, being the strongest and best of the bunch. If you didn’t desire her before, you do now. She moves like she weighs nothing and has no patience for Marvel and ignores Cato. She has more talent and more bloodlust in her pinky than the other three of you combined. You want to fuck her into the ground. 

You watch her kill the boy from nine like it’s nothing and feel your heart catch somewhere just below your jaw. It would be an honor to drain your life out at her feet. 

(Clove, you learned in school, is a bitter herb. It staves off hunger. It means protection, it means love, it means exorcism, which is a word that sits too thick on your tongue, alien and unknown) 

Cato has been going on and on with Peeta about how plain and boring Katniss is for what feels like hours. You hum or giggle when you feels the conversation lull. You’re checked out, thinking instead of how soon you can break away from this group, if you can eliminate the biggest threats in the game before they think you will. Maybe you can team up with Clove to take down the boys and go off on your own. They’re arrogant and trusting--it would be easy to do. 

And then Clove speaks. She’s been near-silent this whole time. She's calculating, measured, but the boys only see that she's small. 

“She’s stupid, but she’s not ugly, idiot.” Clove says. You listen. Cato laughs, but Marvel sneers. 

“You like ‘em ice cold, Clover.” Cato teases. No one but you sees how her jaw clenches at the nickname. You imagine Clove planting her knives in Cato’s face. You imagine the blood pouring hot and steady over his neck, Clove driving her fingers into his wounds next to her blades, bringing them out soaked and wiping them over your lips so you can both feast on her triumph. Soon, you think. Soon.

You make camp. They set you and Clove up for the second shift of keeping watch, like you knew they would. The boys can sleep without fear of the girls. They are stupid. 

You sit on the opposite side of the fire from her and watch her sharpen her knives and drink her water and occasionally take a bite of jerky. You reorganize your pack, making a note of the sparkling purple pastry sent to you by a sponsor sitting on the top. They’re stupid enough to think you are too spoiled to go without the Capitol’s delicacies out here. They don’t realize you were raised on vitamin-heavy gruel and muscle-building mush; you have never been pampered. You long for nothing here. You have food and water and anyways, you were born for this. But still, you look up and smile to the viewers. You let them know you are grateful. They are none the wiser. 

When you stop your simpering, you can feel Clove’s eyes on you. You look at her. She snorts. You don’t ask her what she thinks is funny. You know she’s disgusted with your pretty girl act. The thought that she hates you makes you flush hot and want to cross your legs. 

You would kiss her here, now, in the middle of the night when there’s no one but you (and every eye in the Capitol, but who counts them) but the star crossed lovers angle is already taken and everyone hates a copycat. Instead you smile at Clove over the fire, but Clove isn’t paying attention. She’s cleaning her gear, now. You go back to arranging your things. You finish quickly. 

You watch her without watching her. The light bounces off her hair and you are suddenly seized by the image of her with her head thrown back, black tresses spilled over dead leaves with blood blooming all around them from a corpse feet away, your fingers curled inside of her cunt and covered in gore or quim, who knows. You imagine her eyes clenching shut when she comes. You imagine the way she might bare her teeth to you, like a dog wanting a fight. You imagine she tears into you with her fangs and you die with your fingers still in her pussy. You bite your lip. If she notices, she doesn’t show it.

In the morning, you find Katniss. You taunt her and cajole her, but she is immovable. You try to shoot her, but you’re not good with a bow and you’re distracted by pathetic thoughts of Clove being so impressed by your ability to kill. You haven’t proven yourself yet.

But you miss, so it doesn’t matter. Clove’s eyes are black and she says leave it, she’ll have to come down sooner or later. So you make camp under the tree and take watch shifts. You and Clove again. This time, you do not watch her. You are still ashamed of your failure. Clove says nothing, nothing, nothing. She thinks you’re weak. A non-threat. You’re not good enough to deserve a death at her hands. This knowledge swallows you up until you’re choking on it. It’s Marvel and Peeta’s turn to watch. You go to sleep and dream of seas of brown shot black with adrenaline from the kill, of shores sparkling in the firelight, and blood that comes down from the clouds like thick, vicious rain. 

You wake up in agony. You don’t know what’s happening, just fire, fire, pain, everything burning. You see the others scattering. Maybe you scream for them, but your vision is wavering and sparkling golden. You hurt and hurt but you laugh, and reach out for the light and call it Glimmer. Is this what your soul looks like? You think you might be dying, but Clove is gone. She was supposed to kill you, you remember vaguely. Everyone is gone. You hear a thump like someone falling to the ground, but you can’t bring yourself to move and see what it is. Everything feels tight and hot. The pain is less, now, just a thrumming all around you.

You open your mouth. You wanted to call for someone, but you don’t remember who.


End file.
